Summer House (24 page)

She flipped onto her back, rearranged her limbs, and still she was
uncomfortable. Rising, she padded across the floor to the little table holding her vanity items. She found the bottle of aspirin and her glass of water and took two pills. She stood for a moment, appreciating the fresh velvet night air, but she was too tired to stand for long. Was this going to be one of
those
nights, when her mind fretted and her muscles cramped and her brain pleaded for the relief of sleep but her body would not oblige, would not pull her under into sweet oblivion? Tomorrow was the wedding! She would be hollow-eyed, with dark bags on either side of her nose; she would be dizzy and short-tempered. She threw herself back onto the bed and tried to compose herself. Concentrate on happy moments, she instructed herself. Count your blessings.

When she met
Worth, Helen had just graduated from college with a degree in art history. She’d taken a job working at a posh art gallery on Newbury Street while she tried to decide what she really wanted to do. An inheritance from her grandparents meant that she wouldn’t have to work at something she hated but could find the time to search out work she loved, whatever that would be. She enjoyed working in the gallery, especially when there was a new show to be hung and an opening to be organized and publicized and orchestrated.

One day in early summer, she was seated at the Chippendale writing desk, trying to look busy but really doodling on a notepad, when a tall man about her age walked in. He had thick gold hair, real gold, not light brown or strawberry blond, and eyes as blue as heaven. He wore a suit and tie, and his shirt was crisp, and he moved with a confident, comfortable stride, a man happy with himself and with life.

Helen rose and walked toward him. “May I help you?”

He smiled at her. She smiled at him. For a long moment they just looked at each other. He seemed to cast a magic circle, and she was included.

“Have we met before?” Worth asked.

Thank goodness she had chosen the sleek black dress and high heels today. “I don’t think so.” She couldn’t stop smiling at him.

“Well.” He seemed as stunned by her presence as she was by his. “Well,” he repeated, shaking himself, “I’m looking for a wedding present. For my sister, Grace.”

“Lovely! What sort of art does she like?”

He chuckled. “I’m not sure she likes any kind of art, actually. She’s more of an outdoor type. Loves sports. Big jock.”

“Ah. Does she sail?”

“She does.”

“We’ve got some lovely water scenes by a contemporary Impressionist.” She turned and walked into the back room, stopping in front of several large oil paintings.

In one painting, two people were silhouetted by the setting sun as they steered their sailboat toward a sandy shore.

“This might be nice,” Helen said. “Two people, together.” She turned to see how he was reacting to the painting.

He was looking at her.

He said, “Two people, together.”

She blushed.

“Look,” he said suddenly. “Who are you? I’m sure we’ve met before.”

“I really don’t think so,” she told him. “I’m sure I’d remember meeting you.”

“Yes. Yes—me, too. Well, how about a drink? Or let me take you out to dinner. Or lunch? Or tea?” He walked toward her.

The space between them shimmered. She was absolutely
dazzled.

“Breakfast?” he asked desperately, and they both laughed.

She agreed to have dinner with him that night. From that point on, they were a couple.

When she took him to Hartford to meet her parents, she worried that he might find them a little dull, because, in fact, they were. Her father was an executive at an insurance company and her mother was a homemaker and committeewoman, and both of them required a great deal of routine and tranquillity. This was the early seventies,
which Helen’s parents found more frightening than stimulating, and Worth, with his navy blazer and good manners, bowled them over. Helen was amazed at how easily he managed to create a conversation with her father, asking him about his opinions, his childhood, the insurance business, drawing him out. Helen learned things about her father that she’d never known before.

When Worth took her to meet his family, Helen felt like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
—the black-and-white world became Technicolor. Worth’s family was so
active
and such a
tribe.
On Nantucket, they sailed together, played tennis together, swam together. Went on picnics together. Had parties together. In Boston, everyone except Worth’s mother, Anne, worked at the bank: Worth’s father, Herb; Worth himself; his sister, Grace; and her fiancé, Kellogg. Anne had a rule that no bank business could be discussed at home, and Helen could often see and feel the difference in Worth once he walked through the front door; he became lighter, brighter, happier. During the winter months, the family went north to ski, and at home in Boston on weekends, they would sit around the dining room table, playing poker or board games, or they’d gather in the kitchen to try out a new, complicated recipe. All the men cooked. That alone would have perplexed Helen’s father, who didn’t.

Often, someone in the family would mention Bobby, Worth’s younger brother, who had been killed in Vietnam in 1970. Worth would say, “Remember during that blizzard when we played poker and Bobby got a royal flush? I’ve never ever seen another real live royal flush.” Or Worth’s mother would say, “Kellogg, there’s a handsome plaid jacket of Bobby’s that would look great on you. Grace, take him up and show him.” She knew the family was trying to keep him with them somehow, by including him in normal conversation.

Once Helen said to Worth, “Kellogg doesn’t say much, does he?”

“I know.” Worth grinned. “Kellogg’s a bit of a stick-in-the-mud. But he’s reliable and honest and kind, and he’s willing to live with my sister, so that’s good enough for me.”

Helen quickly learned not to criticize Worth’s relatives. The Wheelwright family had always been close, and the loss of the second son had made them treasure one another even more.

All these years later
, as Helen lay sleepless in bed before the wedding of her own older son, she assured herself that family was still first in Worth’s heart. He wouldn’t want a divorce. She was pretty sure of that.

But then, she had never expected him to be unfaithful.

She hadn’t yet confronted Worth with her knowledge of his affair. She knew that when she did, the ground under their marriage would crumble. A divide had already opened between them, but a bridge still joined their parallel lives, a necessary union, supporting their family. First, to celebrate Nona’s birthday with the attention it deserved, and now, three weeks later, to honor Oliver and Owen’s wedding.

Oliver’s wedding was the last big event for the family. Then the summer would truly have arrived. Nona’s house would remain full of her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren until fall. Worth and the other Bank Boys would come and go, dividing their lives between Boston and Nantucket, but Helen would stay on the island as she always had, helping Glorious and Grace buy groceries, cook, and clean, and also swimming, sailing, playing tennis, and attending concerts and plays. It was always a luxurious, idle few weeks. This year, Helen wanted to get to know Suzette better; the young woman seemed to trust her more each day. She thought Suzette felt comfortable with Charlotte and Nona, too; she certainly hoped so. Suzette would have her baby in September.

And Teddy? Teddy was working! He was managing Gray Lady Antiques. Helen didn’t care what Suzette’s background was, she was a miracle worker where Teddy was concerned. Teddy was not drinking or doing drugs, he wasn’t playing stupid practical jokes or getting speeding tickets or sneaking out to the garden to smoke pot. He was working and attending AA meetings every day, and he was obviously in love with Suzette and happy about the coming baby. This was a fragile peace for Teddy, an unusual and delicate state. Helen didn’t want to upset it by a breath of dissension, and certainly not by the torching explosion of her anger at Worth.

Helen twisted onto her left side and punched her pillow. This bed
was
lumpy. The summer air was gradually increasing in humidity, and in her irritated state she thought she could feel her hair frizzing. She forced herself to take deep, calming breaths.

Suddenly she heard a noise, and then she felt someone on the bed. She raised her head and saw her husband sitting there in his striped cotton pajamas.

“Worth?”

“I have melancholy,” Worth said, and, lifting the sheet, he climbed into bed with her, lying on his side so that she spooned against his back.

I have melancholy
—that was a family catchphrase. When Oliver was a very small child, he’d said that to them the day after Christmas, and since then they used the remark whenever nothing was really wrong but something seemed missing, some essential but invisible thing.

How very strange, almost shocking, it was to have Worth’s warm solid bulk sinking into this narrow bed with her. His shoulders rose up, his bum nudged against her belly, and as she adjusted herself to his girth, scooting closer to the wall, he eased a hand over to pull part of her pillow over to cushion his own head. Her arm had no place to go except over his torso, and when she laid her arm over him, he took her hand with his and held it. He gave off warmth, and his body made the bed sag down in his direction, so that she was rolled against him.

He said softly, “I’ve been remembering Oliver as a little boy. Remember when he spent one afternoon tying all those balloons to the picnic basket, thinking he’d be able to drift up into the sky?”

Helen smiled at the memory. “I’d forgotten about that.”

Worth shifted slightly, nestling more closely. “Remember that summer he spent building houses from playing cards? What patience he had. Those houses were enormous, and he didn’t cheat and use glue, he just carefully balanced card after card.”

“He was an architect even back then,” Helen said.

“Remember the plays the kids used to perform?” Worth chuckled.
“The Vampires of Vaudeville.”

“Sherlock Holmes and the Missing Martian,”
Helen said. “They covered Teddy with green eye shadow and stuck on hideous warts made out of green Play-Doh.” She shuddered.

Worth nodded, his head moving against the pillow. “We have wonderful children, don’t we, Helen?”

She was touched. “We do.”

“They’re certainly individuals. Not who I thought they’d turn out to be. It’s taken me awhile to get used to that.” Worth’s voice was sad. “I remember how much I wanted to be just like my dad. Go to work at the bank, share his knowledge about money and the state of the world. I admired my father above all other men.”

Helen stroked her husband’s hand. “Your children admire you, too.”

“Not in the same way. I’m not trying to be maudlin, I’m just stating a fact. I keep thinking about my childhood, comparing it to that of our children, and I just don’t see much of a difference, yet they don’t hold any of the values I had at their age. Security, continuity, family, and community—these mean nothing to them.”

As Worth talked, his voice low and confiding, Helen felt the puff of his breath and the hum of words in his chest and was carried back to all the other nights they’d lain together like this, talking over some problem or another. There had been so many problems, mostly with Teddy and his escapades. Ever since the boy was fourteen, he’d been caught drinking too much, or been brought home drunk, or was found stealing something from Oliver or Charlotte, and then it was as if Helen and Worth had been caught up in a whirlpool; they’d struggle to save their son, keep their own heads above water, and make it back safe to shore. Their bed had become a kind of life raft for them, a safe retreat; they would crawl in together and lie side by side, calming down, the warmth and bulk of each other’s body providing reassurance in the troubled night.

“I feel I have a responsibility to my father,” Worth said, moving so that his bare foot rested on Helen’s leg. “And to my grandfather. And to Nona. To keep the bank strong. To preserve the Wheelwrights’ place in the world. I know Grace’s husband and sons-in-law can do that,
are
doing that, but I’m the oldest, I’m the male, and while that’s
not supposed to matter in this day and age, it does. My father counted on me to carry on his traditions, in the bank and at home. I feel I’m failing him.”

“You’re not failing him,” Helen said, but the murmur of his words was making her drowsy. Sleep, like a dark seductive sea, was pulling her under, deliciously, and she wanted to surrender to it. A thought flashed up from the depths, through her mind. She should say,
And did your father have a mistress called Sweet Cakes?
But she couldn’t summon up the energy to speak. The mistress would still be there tomorrow and the next day, and the pain—the anxiety of how their lives would change—would not disappear. But right now she felt so cozy, lying here pressed against her husband’s back. It was a familiar and soothing situation; she had not been so physically pleased for a long time. The simple touching of his body to hers. Not in sex but in marriage, friendship, companionship, and trust. Dear old friend, she thought, and with her hand still in her husband’s, she fell asleep.